A Captive Audience
by LickMyThermometer
Summary: Wilson needs advice and he is damn well going to get it. A HouseWilson story of friendship, kidnap, and pictionary. Not slash. Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Season 2, when Wilson's having marriage troubles and actually comes right out and says "Did it ever occur to you I might be going through something I need to have an actual conversation about?" and House still won't sit down and do the normal-friend thing...**

**What if Wilson got a little more insistent?**

* * *

House was having a nightmare. Fighting for his life, flailing, thrashing in a panic... it _hurt _and no matter how hard he fought... he was getting heavier and getting nowhere... animal panic fading into sick, sick terror at the realization that _he couldn't move_... no-... 

When he couldn't fight anymore and went limp, the suffocating arms withdrew. "It's okay, House." Comforting and concerned. Wilson's voice. He relaxed.

* * *

Wilson was reading when the first low moan broke the silence. He turned another page, took a deep breath. When he thought he was ready to go through with this, he put the magazine aside and looked up. 

By now House had come fully awake and was staring at him. The blue eyes were round and frightened.

"It's okay," Wilson explained quickly. "It's just me. I drugged you."

He had expected House to try and make a lot of noise despite the gag, but House was silent. _No, of course he won't start mumbling, _Wilson realized. _He can feel the tape, knows he'd just sound like an idiot. He's going to play it dignified..._

* * *

_Well, as dignified as I can be, tied to a chair, _House was thinking wryly. He had to admit, this was a new one. Not something you'd expect from the usually docile little Jimmy Wilson. He looked down at himself. _Taped, _he corrected himself. _Not tied. **Taped** to a chair. Much flashier than Saran Wrap over the toilet seat._

He looked up and, in case Wilson couldn't see that he was smiling behind the duct tape, quirked his eyebrows. _You have my attention, Doctor_.

"Okay," Wilson said aloud. "You're here because... I need to talk to you. I need you to listen to me. I'm having problems, and... I need you to take them seriously and give me advice." He rose, paced, rubbed the back of his neck. "Will you do that? You might as well - considering you have nothing better to do at the moment."

House's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. _Did you really think it would be that easy?_

"Figured." Wilson sounded resigned if anything - not annoyed or angry in the slightest. "Allow me to inform you that you're not going anywhere until you change your mind."

He rolled his eyes. Theatrics!

"If you look over on your coffee table," Wilson continued, "You'll notice a whole lot of equipment that wasn't there when you went to bed last night. I've got an electric blanket in case you're cold. I've got the components for IV nutrition. A catheter. And as there is no chance in hell of that tape coming off until you've heard _every word _I have to say, I've got syringes for your pain meds. And don't worry - I'm not going to withhold your pain meds except as a seriously last resort. I'm thinking I'll wait a week before I consider taking that step. Does that sound fair to you?"

There was silence while House digested that. _Oh, come on. He's not serious..._

"I think it's safe to assume you're going to be your usual stubborn self, and not change your mind for at least a while." Wilson glanced at his watch. "It's almost eight now. I'll come back to check on you at lunchtime. Your phone is in reach of your right hand. Call my number if there's an emergency and I'll come back... but House - look at me - don't call it for no reason. It wouldn't be wise. Because I am clearly prepared to do crazy things today." He put his jacket on, sighed "See you at noon," and left.

The first thing House did was knock the phone to the floor. _There. _Then, he sat scowling for the next ten minutes, fully convinced that Wilson was going to walk right back in and say, "Scared you, didn't I?"

After that, when he realized Wilson really wasn't coming, he immediately dropped his chin to his chest and tried to doze off fast while he still had some knockout drugs in his system.

* * *

Wilson let himself in at half past nine, with no idea what to expect. "Hey - still breathing?" 

House's head whipped around and Wilson frowned. Pissed-off he could deal with, scared, amused even... but the wide panicked eyes revealed none of these things. Something was wrong.

Wilson got around the couch fast without appearing to hurry. "What is it?"

House's breathing was quick and shallow. He looked down, gestured with his head.

"Your leg hurts?"

Nod. Glance towards the syringes.

"That's just your mind messing with you. It's not nearly time for your next dose yet." When he got a furious glare he sighed. "Come on, I wouldn't really leave you til noon. It's only 9:30. You're fine."

He'd already turned away again when he heard a short, urgent sound. _What's so important that House will deign to squeak for it? _he wondered. He followed House's stare to the DVD player... where a small digital clock blinked. "You _know _what time it is?" he realized, and got an eye roll in return. "So you're asking for your meds because... you actually need them already?" House stared up at the ceiling and wouldn't respond. "How often do you usually..." Wilson made himself stop. They would talk about this later.

"Well, I'm sorry," he said as he got the syringe ready. He tried to keep his voice neutral and knew he failed miserably. "I'd never have kept you waiting this long if I'd known you can't go for two _hours _without fresh opiods in your system. Here." He gave the injection without the least effort to be gentle and tossed the needle aside. "Better?"

* * *

Wilson ducked into the kitchen to get himself coffee, and House glared at his back. Or tried to. It was hard, because with the relief of pain came a warm rush of gratitude and affection that no amount of self-lecturing could get rid of.

Oh, stop, he told himself irritably. _It didn't hurt all that bad yet, you were just scared that you still had hours to go. Don't thank him; it was all his fault anyway. _But it was hard to hang onto anger when he suddenly felt so comfortable. 

Wilson came and sat down on the couch. "Really - are you better?"

Much - Stockholm Syndrome's already setting in. House nodded, a little reluctantly. 

"Good. I didn't know you dosed that often. You should've told me."

House broke his ban on making useless idiot-noises in order to prove a point: "Gmm?"

"Not _now_ - I meant in _general_. Anyway, I apologize for lecturing. This is about _my _problems, not yours." House looked at him, already knowing the next bit before he said it. "We'll deal with you another time."

Great, I can hardly wait. In case Wilson somehow missed his telepathic signals, he followed up with a growl from deep in his throat. 

"Already? The werewolf bites usually take at least until the full moon to kick in."

Gregory House don't you dare laugh.

"You know I can see that," Wilson told him, almost apologetic. "Your eyes change when you smile. Anyway... can I talk to you now?" He looked away so as to avoid seeing the vehement head-shake. "As you've obviously figured out, it's about my wife. The thing is, she-"

"HMM HMM HM-H-HMM!"

Wilson sighed and asked, without looking, "Are you singing _Row, row, row your boat_?"

"Mm-hmm."

"So you're still not ready to listen?"

"Mm-nn." _You're losing, Wilson - this is getting fun._

"I could tape over your nose too so you couldn't hum," Wilson said thoughtfully. "Although then I'd have to talk fast, because you'd be dead in a couple of minutes."

That gave House an idea. The best, most childish act of defiance on earth - even better than obnoxious humming! How had he not thought of this before?

He sucked in air as loudly as he could, puffed out his cheeks to make clear what he was doing, and held his breath.

Wilson sighed. "Cute. I have no problem letting you pass out." Twenty seconds later: "Seriously." Thirty seconds after that: "You can't do it, anyway. Any second now you're going to give up and-... House?"

* * *

TBC.

I have no idea where this story is going. Like not at all. When I figure out the next bit, I'll post it.

What do you think so far?


	2. Chapter 2

Alex: Points to you! I was wondering why nobody had a problem with Wilson's conduct. Don't worry, it's not as bad as it looks. (Although Irresponsible!Wilson is actually kind of canon... he _did _file through the cane, which had the potential to turn out really badly).

Anyhow: enjoy!

* * *

House was just graying out when something poked him hard in the stomach. He gasped reflexively, then growled. So much for holding his breath. 

"Why can't you just listen to me?"

House shrugged. He really had no answer to that.

"Do you think you're going to somehow leap up out of that chair without my help?"

Maybe.

"Do you think you can actually pierce my heart with your stare? I'm wearing a Kevlar vest under this shirt. I'm told it's very protective."

I'm going for a headshot.

Wilson didn't miss the way the glare flashed to his hairline. "And an invisible Kevlar helmet," he added through grit teeth. "Give it up, House."

Sorry, no can do.

"You know what? Fine. We'll watch TV, while we wait for you to grow up."

House watched TV for as long as he could, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Almost immediately, there was a hand on his arm. "Hey - it's bad?"

No, never been better - what the hell do you think? House jerked his head yes. 

"Because this is a bad day? Or because you've been sitting in one position too long?"

House shrugged.

"Both?"

He nodded. Then Wilson came to kneel by his chair and bent down over his foot. House watched, bemused. "Hmm?"

Wilson looked up. "I'm going to cut your leg loose so you can stretch out, okay?" A stool was pulled over, but House couldn't exactly do much about it. Wilson had to lift for him and arrange the limb all by himself. House sat staring at the ceiling, totally ignoring the process because he hated people moving him without his participation.

"Sorry," Wilson said aloud. "Better?"

Yeah. But what happened to this being about YOUR problems?

As if reading his mind, Wilson asked, "Good. Then can we talk now?"

House ignored it, and instead started begging with his eyes for another injection. Wilson frowned. "Okay, I totally miscalculated how much you're taking. I guess I could call someone and have them bring over more…"

"Mm-nn." _And explain what the hell is going on here? Just go get it yourself_.

"Me?" Wilson correctly interpreted his nod. "What, and leave you here alone?"

Like you just did for two hours?

Wilson shook his head reproachfully. "How irresponsible do you think I am? I'm not _you_! Look:" He pointed. "Webcam. This morning I was parked in my car keeping an eye on you… and feeling rather creepy about it, by the way." He cocked his head, thinking. "Which really isn't fair, considering I'm positive _you're _the creep here, not me. All I want is to have a conversation."

Uh-huh. House rolled his eyes, tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. Pantomimed writing. 

"No, the whole point of gagging you is I _don't _want you giving me a piece of your mind," Wilson complained, but got him a pen and pad anyway.

House wrote: _Pain meds worth risk to life. Go._

Wilson read it over several times. "Not _I'll sue you_? Not _we're friends, please untie me_? You finally get a chance to communicate with your captor… and _this _is what you come up with?"

House nodded towards the door.

"I can't leave you..."

House fumbled for the pen. _Dear Cops: _he wrote. _Did this to myself. Not Wilson's fault. Please don't arrest him. Tombstone should be in shape of guitar. –G House. _He nodded towards the door again.

* * *

When the phone in the conference room rang, Foreman checked the caller ID. "Guys, c'mere – it's House." 

But when they picked up and put it on speakerphone, there was only a shrill beeping noise on the other end.

They all covered their ears.

"Bad connection," Cameron shouted into the phone. "Hang up and call us again."

They hung up, waited. When House called back they picked up, but again it was only the beeping.

"House?" Chase called over it. "Your phone's broken. Can you hear us?"

Beep-beep-beep. Beeeep-beeeep-beeeep. Beep-beep-beep.

Cameron blinked. "Hold on. Isn't that… an SOS?"

More beeping - a different pattern.

Chase took over. "Wait, wait, House: is that you? We don't know Morse code. Does anybody here know Morse code?" Foreman and Cameron shook their heads no. "Okay… House? Can you hear us? Can you talk?" He was practically shouting into the phone just in case.

Foreman heaved a sigh. "How's he supposed to answer, idiot? If he can't talk…"

"Fine. Two for yes, one for no. Okay, House?"

Yes. 

"Great. Okay. So you can hear us?"

Yes.

"Is everything okay?"

Cameron hissed "What kind of a stupid question is that?", but after a short pause House answered _Yes_ and she shut up.

"Can you talk?"

No. 

"Do you need our help?"

Yes. 

"Are you… in danger?"

Foreman's turn to complain: "What is this – the CIA?"

No.

Foreman had the epiphany: "Do you need help because you were playing some kind of stupid game that went wrong?"

Pause. _Yes_.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "Before we bend over backwards for you: is this all your own fault?"

Immediately: _No_.

"Okay: give us a second," Chase said. "Let us pull up a chart or something online, and then you can spell out _very slowly _what you need us to do."

* * *

When Wilson got to the pharmacy, Chase was there signing for something. _Be cool. Don't talk to him._ But he felt so awkward just standing that he had to say, "Chase, hi." 

"Hi," Chase said easily. Then, as if he'd just remembered: "Oh! House says don't worry about his meds – he took care of it."

"He took…" Wilson repeated, mystified, as he was handed the little package he'd called in. He slipped it into his pocket. "When did you… talk to House?"

"He came in a couple minutes ago. Just before you. I think he ran up to his office for something, but he said he wasn't staying long."

"House... came _here_?"

"Yeah. He said something about you guys playing hooky today? Have fun."

"Yeah... uh... we will." Wilson spent the first few minutes of his return trip wondering how the hell House had escaped and beat him to work. By the time he arrived, though, he had scrapped that idea and was wondering instead how the hell House had managed to convey instructions to his conniving, lying minions. "All right," he demanded as he threw the door open. "How did you do it?"

House nodded towards his pad, where he had already written: _ESP. Duh._

Wilson chuckled and wrestled the pen from his hand. "That's it, buster, your talking privileges are hereby revoked. Unless of course you're ready to talk about my wife."

House looked longingly at the pen and Wilson could only imagine the answers he'd come up for that one.

* * *

TBC. 

Next chapter gets more serious. Let me know what you think so far!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Damn it, House wouldn't stop goofing off. So nothing serious happens this chapter, sorry.

* * *

"You had me going for a second," Wilson admitted. "When Chase said you'd shown up at the hospital..." 

House chuckled through the tape. _I am truly awesome_.

"Most people, though... Having found a method of communicating, instead of taking the opportunity to screw with me, would have tried to get themselves rescued."

House hadn't even thought of that - he'd been too caught up in the game.

"You're not normal, House."

Gee, you think? Or: _so says the guy who just KIDNAPPED me._

"Still, considering my _utter _failure at marriage... among other relationships," he added with a helpless gesture at the mess around them, "I figure I need all the help I can get. Even from you. Are you ready yet?"

"Mm-nn."

Wilson hesitated and for a moment House was afraid he would give up. Afraid? Yes - as it turned out, crazy though it might be, he was actually _rooting _for him, _wanted _him to find a way of forcing the issue. He _wanted _Jimmy to have help... he just wasn't very good at offering it, and certainly didn't want to offer it out of pity. Besides, weren't things supposed to be more meaningful when you had to work for them? That's why you made your kids get a paper route to pay for their video games and drug habits. Nothing good comes for free.

On some level, he thought, Wilson must understand this. Otherwise what was he doing fighting for relationship advice frrom Greg House? It wouldn't help... The only thing that made it special, different from the garbage Cameron and Cuddy and anyone else would be happy to dole out, was that it was hard... perhaps impossible... to get.

"Fine - we'll wait." House made a face, Wilson smirked at him, and they went back to watching TV.

Good - he's not giving up yet. Wonder what he'll try next? House started considering his own campaign. He needed an alternate shut-up mechanism, so as not to have to rely on humming alone. Humming was dangerous because if it got too annoying, Wilson might think of giving him a shot in the neck to mess with his vocal chords. 

Oh, stop. Wilson won't do that, House assured himself. _Although... I probably would. _

Eventually he had to pee. He thought it highly unlikely that Wilson was serious about the catheter; he hadn't been serious about leaving the apartment and hadn't been a hardass about keeping the leg comfortable either.

Anyway, he couldn't not pee forever, could he? "Mm."

"What?" Wilson didn't turn to look at him, which made communicating very difficult.

House growled. _What do you want me to do, think it at you?_

"I know what you want. The answer is: not til you talk to me."

"Gm gmm."

"Fuck you?"

"Mm-hmm." He sighed. Tapped his foot.

After a bit Wilson looked over. "You really have to go?"

Not sure if he could manage an _mm-hmm _that didn't sound too much like begging, House just nodded.

"Okay, good. My position is improving. You now have three options. One: I can cath you. Two: I can bring you a container. Or, three: You can promise to talk to me, and I'll let you get up and use the big-boy potty all by yourself."

House shook his head.

"Oh, come _on_!"

"Mm-nn."

In another twenty minutes he was squirming visibly, and Wilson sighed. "What are you going to do - never urinate again?"

"Mm-hmm!" House chirped proudly.

"Suit yourself." Wilson got up, moseyed on into the kitchen. Ran the water.

Amateur. House focused on the sound of the TV to drown it out. It was starting to hurt a little, but it was still easier to stomach than the thought of caving in so easily. Especially when Wilson had clearly thought him capable of holding out for so much longer. The IV equipment and all the rest was most likely a scare tactic, but the fact that there was an overnight bag by the door meant Wilson had expected him to last at least through the day. He would not disappoint. 

Wilson eventually reappeared, with a pot. "I wonder if soaking you in warm water only works while you're asleep?" he mused.

House forgot to try and be dignified. "Mm-nn!" he squeaked, squirming. _Come on, that's so wrong..._

"Oh, re_lax_," Wilson scoffed. "It's _empty_. You don't appear to want to talk, and I doubt you'd prefer a cath, so you get a pot. After which I will throw this pot away. House... it's growing _mold. _Did you actually plan to eat out of this thing again?" He appeared to be waiting for some kind of response.

The fuzz adds flavor. Or, maybe I put it in the oven and forgot about it after you last cooked here. Do **you **feel like trying to scrape out that crud? Me neither.

Wilson was looking incredulous. "You're not caving. You would rather pee into a piece of cookware than have a conversation with me? It's one or the other."

Shrug.

"I'm serious."

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

"I _am._ I'm a doctor. I'm not afraid of other people's bodily functions."

Good for you. It's nothing I haven't experienced before. Only I'd appreciate it if we skipped the debridement this time, thanks.

* * *

Wilson expected House to shut down completely after being forced to accept help using the bathroom. But no - after a short period of pretend catatonia wherein he stopped breathing and glued his eyes to the ceiling, he perked right up again and began gesturing impatiently for the pen. 

Wilson gave it, with misgivings.

Pizza?

"Nice try. Tape stays."

House pawed at the pad until Wilson flipped over a fresh sheet for him, then started sketching. Curious, Wilson tried to get a closer look, but House slammed his hand down over it. "Mm-nn!"

"Okay, okay." Wilson backed off, hands spread. "You tell me when you're ready to show off your masterpiece." In the meantime, he wandered back into the kitchen in search of something to remind House who was boss.

Aha - a tray of ice cubes should do the trick.

He re-entered the living room to the sound of insistent squeaking. "Has the artist finished his work?"

"Mm-hmm."

Wilson took the pad and frowned. Because House couldn't see what he was doing and had only limited wrist motion, the sketch was just a series of tiny uneven pictures that were probably meant to convey some message...

Wilson squinted. "Okay, the first thing is... a person. With a box over their mouth. That's you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And the second thing is... a... donut?"

"Mm-nn." House made a big show of struggling in his seat.

"Oh- not a donut, that's a roll of tape."

"Mm-hmm."

"That fourth picture is obviously a pizza. But, this third thing: A... door? With a box in front of it? What's that _in _the box?" Try as he might, the scribble was totally indecipherable and eventually he had to look to House for help.

The hint he got was: a growl, some rapid panting noises, and a distinctive high-pitched whimper.

"Puppy? Oh! Doggy door," Wilson realized, squinting at the picture again. He put the message together then without difficulty. "You want me to build you a gag with a door in it so that I can feed you pizza."

House nodded, obviously pleased with his pictionary skills.

Wilson didn't bother to point out that most people would simply ask to have the tape removed. Most people weren't House. "I suppose I could do that. Pizza'd be nice." He called for delivery and then noticed that House was smirking at him. "Yeah, wait a second," he realized, "You're my prisoner here, you're supposed to be suffering, and instead I'm waiting on you hand and foot. What's wrong with this picture?"

So he went around behind the chair where House couldn't see him, and dropped a couple of ice cubes down his shirt.

"There," he said when House squealed in surprise and began wriggling around. "That's better."

Once the initial shock of the cold had passed, House ignored it and started attempting to draw blueprints. Problem was, Wilson noticed at once, all of the gagged stick-figures were smiling. He put his head in his hands. House was apparently immune to both humiliation and torture. What was left?

Begging? "I really need help, you know," he said to the floor.

He looked up at the sound of tapping to see that House had written: _I know_.

He sighed with relief... which prompted House to turn wicked and add: _That's why I'm making all these lovely diagrams to explain it for you._

Wilson had caught the moment of seriousness and felt better. But he still put more ice down House's shirt and warned, "Next step is earphones and the Backstreet Boys. I mean it."

* * *

TBC. 

Ok, next chapter they will talk for serious. I promise.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I promise House hasn't lost his mind. There's a method to his madness... really.

* * *

House hoped Wilson had been kidding about the Backstreet Boys, but when he saw the small pink - yes, pink - ipod in his hand he groaned aloud. 

"Do me a favor and don't break this," Wilson said. "It's not mine."

How the hell did you phrase that one? House wondered. _Did you say, hey baldie, I know you're dying in agony and would love your music to keep you company, but I actually need to borrow your ipod to torture a friend with this weekend?_

Wilson correctly guessed what he was thinking. "She forgot it in my office the other day," he explained. "Her parents decided not to bother driving in again for it; I'm holding onto it til her next appointment. At which time I will return it to her _intact_."

House rolled his eyes. _I wouldn't hurt someone's music._

Although he almost reconsidered that when he heard Wilson muttering, "Now how do you get it to do one-song repeat again... ah there we go." The earphones descended onto his head and he winced.

Show me the meaning of being lonely...

* * *

Wilson gave the pizza guy a huge tip and slammed the door quickly, to minimize the chances that he would happen to look in and see what was going on in the living room. 

Not that he actually expected House to squeal for help - he'd now had several different chances to try and get himself released, and had declined to take them. Apparently he didn't mind being a captive. The psychology behind that might be a little weird, but Wilson would deal with it later. First, it was time to eat.

He got plates and silverware, cut a slice into pieces, and turned off the Backstreet Boys. Then he tried to stop looking domestic and start looking tough. "Okay. I'm now going to give you pizza," he declared. "If you take the opportunity to start talking, or... or any other form of misbehaving, then you're... not going to get any pizza. Instead, um..." he cast around for a threat but the best he could do was, "I'll feed you something gross."

House was writing. _Soap?_ he suggested helpfully.

"Thanks. It's so fortunate I have you to guide me," Wilson agreed. "Making someone's life miserable _is_ your specialty, after all. Fine - soap it is. If you don't behave for pizza, you get soap."

He sincerely hoped House wouldn't test him, because he wasn't sure he was prepared to follow through.

Luckily though, nothing much happened when the door-flap was unstuck and pizza poked in. House ate and didn't say a word. He even wrote _Thx_ on the pad.

"You know, I haven't even taken you to the deepest circle of Hell yet," Wilson said conversationally during the second slice.

House paused his chewing a moment and popped up his eyebrows.

"I know _annoyance _is very hard for you to handle, but there's one thing you hate even more." _And best yet, it's something I have no qualms about doing to you._

House cocked his head. He seemed to be trying for nonchalance, but Wilson could see he was getting nervous.

"_Boredom_," he explained. "After lunch I'm going in the other room to get work done, and you're going to sit here, doing nothing, with the TV off. Blindfolded," he added on sudden inspiration. "There will be _nothing _of interest for you, nothing to do or look at, all afternoon."

He got pretty much the reaction he was expecting - House tilted his head back with a groan, then smiled. Nodded. Wrote: _Well played, sir._

"Damn right. Oh," he added innocently, "And in case you were thinking of going to sleep... you might notice those last couple bites of pizza have been a little... bitter? Almost like I sprinkled them with ground-up No-Doz?"

He stuck the doggie-door closed again and pulled a hat down over House's eyes. "Have fun. Bwuahahaha." It was one of the better evil laughs he'd ever produced.

Then, figuring House would hold out for at least an hour before making some kind of a stink, he headed into the bedroom to get some work done.

He used the bathroom, fussed over himself in the mirror for a bit, set out his books and papers, got everything all organized, and then sat down to work. 

The _moment _he opened a file, though, before he'd even read a single word, a terrific crash came from the living room.

Wilson jumped up and ran in there. On some level he already knew that the perfect timing meant House had done it on purpose just to piss him off, but still he couldn't help worrying.

The prisoner had somehow tipped himself over, probably with the help of his bad leg, and was now lying on the floor gasping and ashen.

Wilson knelt by him and tried to sound annoyed. "Nice. Idiot. Did you hurt yourself?"

House shrugged his shoulders and glanced down.

"Just your leg?" He got a nod, and stopped worrying. He spent the next few minutes trying to get the chair rightside-up again, but House was far too heavy and besides was laughing at his pitiful efforts. "Fine, you know what? You can stay like that," he decided. The fall had obviously hurt some, so he gave House a shot and then sat on the floor himself. "You okay now?"

House nodded and began tapping for his pen, which had gotten lost in the chaos. Wilson had to get up and get him a new one. "What?"

Get any work done?

Wilson wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. Maybe both. "This is unbelievable," he breathed at last. "House..." It was almost a plea for mercy. He winced. _I am the worst kidnapper ever,_ he thought. _I'd score worse than Dr. Evil on a villain-competency exam._

House doodled thoughtfully for a moment and then gave him some advice: _You'll never get anywhere as long as I'm having fun. The syringes are a mistake._

Wilson read it twice to make sure. "Are you saying... I should withhold your pain meds?"

House met his eyes fearlessly and shrugged.

"But that's... that's not like shorting your sheets, House, that's serious. That's torture. You wouldn't think it's funny, you'd... hate me for it."

True. But I would respect you for it. And it would end this once & for all.

Wilson tried to read him, and got nowhere. "No. Come on - I wouldn't do that to you."

Tried the nice route, and look where it got u. Expect that to change?

Well, yes. Yes, he'd figured eventually House would suck it up and just commit himself to the brief, annoying task of giving advice. He'd figured the friendship was worth that much to him at least. _That he'd take the slightest notice of my needs for a change, _Wilson thought bitterly. Aloud he said: "Yeah - I'd hoped."

Then: u idiot!, House scrawled. _Nice didn't work. Push me didn't work. So: Break me._ He made hard eye contact for a moment before ordering: _D/C THE MEDS._

"I can't," Wilson insisted, even though the knew the idea was a good one. It would without doubt be successful. And it wouldn't even be all that cruel in the end; House hated the mere _thought _of not having access to his medication and so would probably cave well before experiencing any serious pain.

But no. It was cold, drastic, nasty. _That's where the fun stops, _as House would probably say. Forget it. "No," he said again, meaning it.

House sighed and wrote: _Allow me to inform you that we're not going anywhere until you change your mind_.

Wilson stared at the words, the very same words _he _had used this morning. He applied his entire intellect to the task of figuring out what the hell was going on in House's brain right now... and had even less success than usual.

* * *

TBC. 

Credit where it's due: the idea of a "villain-competency exam" came from a fanfic I read a long time ago... don't remember what it was or even what fandom, but if it's yours, I hope you don't mind my borrowing!

Let me know what you think so far!


	5. Chapter 5

They let the matter drop for the rest of the day. It didn't resurface again until that evening, when House was (again) squeaking for his medication.

Wilson gave it to him and tried to ignore the note he was writing.

House managed to catch his sleeve between his fingers, and tugged until he turned his attention to the words _MAN UP AND DO IT, JIMMY_.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Period."

_Favor in the long run. U think you're the only one who wants out? _

Wilson just shook his head. They let it drop again for a while. Then: "Hey… you need the bathroom again?"

"Mm-hmm."

Afterwards Wilson sighed. "How long do you actually intend to hold out for?"

_Long as I can. Leg's bad here tho; need to up dosage._

"I need to up the dosage… enabling you to hold out, and thus suffer, longer. I see." He ran a hand through his hair and stood up.

He got a syringe, held it up with a big flourish, and put it on the floor. House went very still and closed his eyes.

Wilson stomped down and watched his friend flinch at the sound of the glass crunching. He watched the shudder, heard the hiss, and prayed that he had done enough.

But when House's eyes opened, though he looked terrified he was nodding. A glance towards the table, then a note: _Good. Break them._

Wilson still wasn't sure he could do it, right up until the moment he laid all the clean syringes on the floor and raised a book over them. He looked one more time to House, praying for a reprieve.

_You have to do it,_ House wrote. _Because what if she NEVER files_?

Wilson lowered the book slowly. "What?"

_For divorce. _

"D- divorce? Me and Julie?" Wilson was stunned.

"Mm-hmm."

"No, that's-… that's crazy, we're not _divorcing_!"

House shrugged and started sketching.

"But we haven't-... come on, nobody's having an affair, nobody- we, we..."

When House was done with his drawing he nodded for Wilson to take the pad.

It was a crude balance with the caption HAPPINESS SCALE. On one side, the lighter side, were two frowning stick-figures, one of which appeared to be female. On the heavier side, clearly outweighing the couple, was a single smiling stick-figure with a box over its mouth.

Wilson had no trouble interpreting the picture, or, after a moment's thought, agreeing with it. _House, _the eternally miserable, was far happier lying tied up on his living room floor than Dr. and Mrs. Wilson were in their picture-perfect marriage. They had no fights, no affairs, and yet no happiness.

Still, that didn't mean things were _over_! "It's just a rough patch," he argued aloud. "It'll get better."

House's eyebrows arched. _While you're hanging out over here_?

"I... I could go home!"

_Or while J hides out at her sister's? Or while u sleep in same room but don't xchg 2 words all night? _

Wilson was quiet for a while. "Is that really what you think?"

"Mm-hmm."

Wilson stood up and paced around the room for almost half an hour. It wasn't quite enough time for him to decide that his marriage was indeed beyond saving, but it was plenty of time to realize that the ransom he'd demanded had been paid.

He knelt down and put a hand to House's face. "Fast or slow?"

House snapped his fingers.

Wilson jerked the tape off all at one go, wincing at the sound House made. "Sorry - should've thought of a politer way of keeping you quiet."

"No worries." House's voice was hoarse from a day of nothing but growls. "Anything else and I'd have eaten it... choked and escaped by ambulance. Tape's a good way to go."

Wilson got up to look for scissors. "Should it frighten me that you know that? Um. I don't know if I agree with you yet, but thanks."

"What - for not making you actually be the bad guy in the end?" House shrugged. "Your wife is not going to be so merciful. You're going to have to be the one to file, or you two will be together in misery forever, til death do you part. I know you: you'll agonize for a while, and then you'll do it."

Wilson sat on the floor and started sawing through the duct tape. "You sound like that pleases you."

"I'm interested," House agreed. "I don't see you hurt people that often. I'm wondering how you'll handle it."

Wilson stopped what he was doing. "You're an ass," he said. He snatched up a butter knife from the coffee table and pressed it into House's hand. "Cut _yourself_ loose."

"Jimmmyyyyy," House whined as Wilson disappeared into the bedroom, "That's what friends're for! If we can't be honest with each other then-"

"I will _so _come out there and tape you up again!" Wilson yelled back, with no intention of doing it. Half a second's thought had told him why House wanted him out of the room: there was probably a lot of wincing and cursing in his future and he wanted to do it in private.

So Wilson stayed in the bedroom with his files and pretended not to hear the ruckus. "There's pills on the table," he called dispassionately.

A long while later House burst in, cane in hand. "You," he declared, "Don't deserve freedom. You should stay married after all."

"Believe it or not," Wilson said as if he only just realized it himself, "I actually don't want to talk about the marriage thing right now."

House looked outraged. "You _kidnapped _me to make me talk about that, and now you don't-"

"You might want to check the mirror for a sec," Wilson interrupted. "What are you going to tell people?"

It was obviously a diversionary tactic, but House checked anyway. He winced at the bright red splotch covering his face. "Uh..."

"Let me guess: allergic reaction to Cuddy's bikini wax?" Wilson suggested.

"I was going to say: apparently Cuddy has poison ivy in her special place." House grinned at him in the mirror. "Either way."

"So... considering I've really got nothing to go home to... wanna finish the movie?"

House rolled his eyes. "Quit feeling sorry for yourself," he scoffed. "You're not the one who just spent the day taped to a chair."

"No, I'm the one who just spent the day tortured by a guy who's _supposed _to be my prisoner. Do you have any idea how demoralizing that is?"

"Yeah, it's pretty pathetic," House agreed as they arranged themselves in the living room again, both on the sofa this time. He opened a beer. "I take it you're staying for the rest of the weekend?"

"Not quite as appealing now that you can talk, but... yes." He didn't have to say thanks.

"Well, you know if Julie throws you out once you tell her you're getting a divorce – which you _will; _if you can waste perfectly good pain meds you're a stone-cold bastard who can do anything – if she throws you out, you can always come back here."

"Mm."

"Long as you leave the duct tape at home."

* * *

The End. 

Feedback is super appreciated… and so are suggestions. I am totally willing to adopt & nurture plot bunnies if you have them!

Thanks for reading and happy holidays.


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